For The Simple Sake of Quiet
by FancyFreeThinker101
Summary: Sharp is absurd and emotional, and Bernard merely wants to preserve the peace...right? Fluffy Oneshot, corresponds to Woes of Eternally Bored. Please read and review!


Women were troublesome creatures.

I repeated this to myself ceaselessly as I worked, trying to keep all else from my mind. _She_, the Sharp minx, had of late been very…affectionate since I had admitted that I didn't _quite_ despise her after all, and as a result of this my dreams had become increasingly…bold…

It was all her fault. If the little snippet just kept her hands to herself …

My acidic reverie was interrupted by the its very object herself—opening my mouth to say something cool and stingingly sarcastic, I was startled to see that Sharp's eyes were pink and so was her nose, and she looked rather-rather _wet_. At once I stiffened, and my eyes closed tightly, willing this dreadful apparition to vanish.

_Oh, God_.

Not a crying woman. I could deal with anything but a crying woman.

Crying women were—inane, illogical. And they had no appreciation of boundaries.

Sharp, still retaining a shred of dignity—as opposed to her typical two shreds—turned away from me, shoulders shaking rather—well—pathetically.

It was all quite appalling.

My first instinct in this wild situation was to keep silent and let the problem resolve itself—Sharp, after all, was one of those fools who could be positive about anything. She could probably pull herself out of it.

However, my mouth, it seemed, had another idea, and I found myself saying, albeit jerkily:

"Sharp—are you—is everything—what's wrong?"

"It's—it's nothing," she said quickly, still not facing me. "I—I'm fine, Bernard."

For a moment, I pondered saying "very well" and leaving her to her miseries—yet something in me, some bothersome bleeding heart I'd only just discovered, protested loudly…

Quickly I rationalized my appalling sentimentalism. The faster I—applied myself, the faster the tears would stop.

Really, it was all for the sake of peace and quiet.

Sighing, I said, in a quiet tone:

"No, it isn't, Sharp, and you're not. I'm not stupid. What's wrong?"

She turned then, and looked at me with full, glistening eyes…I was disgusted with myself for actually…feeling something. Some odd, unnamed softness.

"I-I dunno," she sniffed, staring at the ground. "I just…I've been having a bad time at work."

"Why is that?" I said, still in a low tone of voice. It was odd—yet I found myself rather wanting to know.

Her reply was quintessentially Sharp—vague and vehement and confusing as hell.

"My boss—he just hates me!"

She approached me, and instinctively I stiffened, unsure of whether to retreat or to stand my ground—and then, with her typical heedlessness, the impossible minx threw her arms around my neck, pressing her face to my chest. Startled, I just stood there, blinking. God.

"It—everything is—alright," I told her inanely, wanting her head off my chest and her appealing warmth away from my body as quickly as possible. Then, when this failed to soothe her, I became still more desperate, mumbling stiffly:

"Please don't cry, Gwendolyn."

"He hates me," she said, into my turtleneck. "He—he always makes me feel so—so stupid and I just can't…not anymore…"

Oh, God. It appeared I was in for a regular outpour.

It was obvious what I had to say—yet saying it was a great deal easier than I had imagined. I actually found myself rather….sincere.

"You're not stupid."

At this her sobs paused for a moment, and her arms wound a little tighter around my neck; I found my thoughts scattering in a most absurd manner.

"R-really?"

Again, a sigh; for God's sake.

"Really."

The tears which had been swiftly dampening my shirt slowly decreased in volume; sniffing, she gave a very faint sigh which, for some unknown reason, elicited a strange lightness within me…

Of their own accord, my hand was going to her back, gingerly rubbing it, while the other arm wrapped around her waist. She swallowed, and lay her cheek to my heart; I was infuriated by the way said organ gave an unsteady thump…

Tremblingly, damply, she spoke.

"I-I love you, Bernard."

"You do?" I said, sounding as inane as herself. Later, I knew I would be humiliated at how—vulnerable I was allowing myself to be.

"Mm-hm," she said softly, and pressed a damp, salty kiss to my cheek. "A lot."

She was by now starting to sound rather drowsy; wincing inwardly at how this must all look—it wasn't often, after all, that the grouchy curator had a sobbing girl dangling from his neck—I sighed and made for the nearest bench, one hand srill awkwardly tracing circles on her back.

Dear God. If anyone came by…

Gwendolyn let out a slow exhale, and her vise grip around my neck slackened marginally. I just waited.

"S-sorry," she mumbled, determinedly keeping her face buried in my chest. I nodded jerkily.

"It's quite alright."

There was a pause; in a very soft voice, she said:

"That was really nice of you, Bernard."

At once I winced, hating the word. _Nice_. It was a word for schoolboys and mothers—excepting my own. I was not _nice_.

"I just wanted some quiet," I told her, with a sinking feeling that she knew better. She glanced up at me through her wet lashes and smiled.

"Of course you did."

I decided to ignore this; to do otherwise would be humoring a fool.

"Don't do that anymore," I told her, not quite sure what I was even trying to say. "Listen to your boss, I mean. He's quite obviously of substandard intelligence."

She laughed a little, into my shirt, and I was startled by how…_pleasant _it felt.

Damn. It was happening again.

"Okay. Thanks, Bernard. I-I better go back…my break's almost over. Bye…and…and thanks."

And quickly she scampered off, leaving me worried because it hadn't been—_so_ dreadful as I had initially believed.


End file.
